


Dead Men Don't Kiss and Tell

by NeoVenus22



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:30:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeoVenus22/pseuds/NeoVenus22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martha will not deny to anyone that knows her that studying Owen not quite as much out of loyalty than it is selfish curiosity.  What she won't say is that it's not entirely scientific curiosity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Men Don't Kiss and Tell

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Series 2.

Martha will not deny to anyone that knows her that studying Owen not quite as much out of loyalty than it is selfish curiosity. After all, who's ever had the opportunity to study a living dead man?

What she won't say is that it's not entirely scientific curiosity.

He has a cute smile, she thinks idly, still unable to get him off her mind. Not infectious and manic like the Doctor's, not smirky and flirtatious like Jack's, but rather sort of... like he's moved on already, like he's bored.

Martha finds it fascinating. Everything he does, how can he be bored?

She heads back to UNIT with Jack's repeated assurances that he will be fine, that Owen will be fine, that Torchwood will be fine. They'll call her if they need her. Don't worry.

She worries. Owen is a dead man, trying to make his way through existence in a body that is little more than a carrying case. Flesh without sensation, blood that doesn't pump and wounds that don't heal, and all wrapped tight around a soul that was bruised long before his body failed him.

Owen Harper, medical miracle, heartbreaker with a dead heart, stays at the forefront of her mind for so many days straight Martha thinks she's hallucinating when she sees him at the pub.

But while hallucinations occasionally talk, or so has been her sad experience, they rarely push a pint her way across the top of the bar. "Doctor Martha Jones."

"Hello, Owen."

"Don't look so surprised to see me. Jack lets me off the leash once in awhile."

Martha smiles weakly. Owen nods his head at the glass. "Go on, s'all right. Sit down and have a drink with a dead man."

It's at this moment that Martha realizes she's being stupid and treating him the way he doesn't want to be treated, treating him as though he's different. He is different, of course, medically speaking, but he knows this and probably doesn't need the extra reminder. And beneath it all, she reckons, he's still the same Owen. Martha sits. "You don't drink."

Owen's expression is tight, and the grin is barely a quirk of the lips, but it seems sincere all the same. "I can drink," he informs her. "Just can't keep it down. Something of a party trick, really."

She can only imagine. The condensation cools against her fingers. "Please don't share," she says.

"Wouldn't dream of it. Although it's the one thing that's seemed to gross Jack out."

"Really? Jack doesn't like vomit?"

"Jack doesn't like projectile vomit."

"Oh, who does, really," she jokes. "So what are you doing, wandering about at night, buying alcohol you won't drink?"

"That's the gist of it, yeah. Hoping to ply a girl or two into taking her top off."

"Won't do you much good."

"Yeah, well, the equipment's a bit rusty in that regard, but the mechanisms behind it are still the same."

"You're still a pervert," she translates.

The jokingly lecherous smile of a dead man should not send a spark down her spine, but it does. "Who knows, maybe the sight of Martha Jones naked will stir up some dead blood."

"If you think I'm taking my clothes off, you're delusional." But she's chuckling anyway. He's charming enough, in a tragic sort of fashion. She almost feels bad about rebuffing him.

"A man can dream," he murmurs.

"Continue dreaming."

Owen eyes her. "So, boyfriend, eh?"

"Yes, Owen."

"And he lets you out alone at night? Pretty little thing like you?"

Martha thinks she's supposed to get mad, but finds it hard to. Maybe it's pity. He's charming enough, but it's obvious, at least to her, that he's terribly lonely. Companionship is difficult with a secret this big and a group of friends who hold him at arm's length.

"Let's go for a walk," she says, surprising herself in the process.

And Owen, too, judging by the raised eyebrows. "Sure about that?"

"'Course. How often do I get to see you?"

"You could visit."

He has her there. "Well, work..."

"Well, death..."

Martha has no choice but to laugh. "Let's go."

"Didn't you come with people?"

"What makes you think I didn't come alone?"

"You're not as pathetic as me."

"Oh, hush. Let me go say goodbye, and we'll go." Martha is acutely aware of him following over to the table she'd long since evacuated.

"Oy, Martha, what happened?" demands Jenny. "We thought you'd died."

"This is Owen, an old work friend," she explains. Jenny and Catherine smile politely, but she can see it in their eyes: 'what about Tom?' "We're just stepping outside for a bit," is all she says. She'll be the subject of an inquisition later, but right now she could care less. The place seems oppressive and filled with expectations.

They make it outside just as a wind howls; the air bites and Martha buttons up her coat. Owen watches this passively. "I'd do the gentlemanly thing," he says, "but..." No body heat to offer. No need for a coat he might chivalrously share.

"It's the thought that counts."

"Thinking is about all I'm good for." He's got a dark tone. Then again, maybe he's always had it. She doesn't know him well enough to judge. It makes her sad. His words and his voice are bitter, but there's a wit underneath it. One that bites like the wind, but maybe she doesn't find things funny in quite the same manner as she used to.

"So," she says slowly, as they start down the road to nowhere in particular. "How's work?"

"Much fun as it can be, given that they can't let their little pet outside." Owen laughs brutally. "Oh, they take me for walkies, occasionally. To the vet and such. Did you know Gwen got married?"

"That's nice." She likes Gwen all right. More time and they might even have been friends.

"Right prat, her fiance, but beggars can't be choosers."

"Oh, you're horrible," she says, swatting his arm. "Gwen's nice. And given that he's got your stamp of disapproval, I'm sure the man she's married isn't all that bad, either."

"If you're into the dull, doughy sort. Right, then," he gives her a sideways look, "what's your boy like?"

"Tall, good-looking, the sort you could trust your life with."

"Got a type then?" he preens, earning her laughter. There's just something about Owen. Even at his most darkly sarcastic, she finds she can't help but like him.

"Type? What makes you think you're not the prototype?" she teases.

"A man can only dream so big."

Martha laughs at that and the look he gives her makes her wonder if no one else ever laughs at his jokes. There must be a reason why he's so desolate, after all. The thought overtakes her, consumes her with unanswerable questions, and the silence they fall into is just on this side of companionable.

She asks him again about work, and he answers seriously and without tremendous self-reflection for once. This, she thinks, is the cornerstone of their bond, the need to talk with someone who might understand. She can't talk about the Doctor, can't talk about the Year That Wasn't (yet refuses to leave her alone, in spite of its nonexistence), but she can still talk. It's not the same at UNIT, wedged awkwardly among all the military types who give and take orders. Owen still thinks of aliens as something of a fascination. A bother, perhaps, but he still considers them real and interesting and more than just his job. Martha likes that. Martha needs that, the fascination, coupled with a detachment that keeps her from getting too invested again.

"Can I ask a favor?" Owen says when they reach the water.

"'Course, Owen, anything," Martha says immediately.

"Fancy a kiss?"

Owen grins at her, rather invitingly, actually, but Tom's face flashes in her mind's eye and she balks. "Owen, I don't think that's such a good idea."

His face falls, but he gamely tries to pass it off in his own Owen way. "Thought you said anything."

"I've got Tom..."

"Not going to grant a dying man his last wish?" he asks, with a wry twist of a grin.

"You're already dead, Owen," she says, smiling at him gently. She hasn't forgotten that he's dead because of her. And she owes him.

"Right, and I never got that dying wish granted, now, did I."

Martha's stomach churns. She's not sure if it's guilt or apprehension.

"Consider it an experiment," he says. "I just want to know if it's still something I can do. I can't do much else."

There are too many excuses, too many attempts at justification. Martha clings to them eagerly, not willing to examine that Owen's flirting is not just flirting without cause. She's certainly not willing to examine the idea that Owen Harper is someone she's thought of on more than one occasion. A kiss that couldn't possibly go anywhere, and she needs to believe it can't, could be just what the doctor ordered, pardon the expression. "All right," she agrees.

Owen's eyebrows raise. "You sure?" The way he says it, she imagines he'd planned a whole method of cajoling her and is surprised he has to scrap the whole plan.

"Just a kiss, right?"

"Just the one."

"All right, Doctor Harper, lay it on me." She closes her eyes patiently, bravely, and waits.

It's... cold. Cold and dry and although the enthusiasm is present and undoubtedly genuine, Martha can't help but cringe. She squeezes her eyes tighter shut and prays he doesn't notice her tensing underneath his hands.

He is not gasping for breath, of course, not even struggling, which makes the moment all the creepier. He is terribly calm and it nearly frightens her. "So what's the prognosis, Doctor Jones?"

"It was..."

"Please don't bother trying to put a poetic spin on it. Be honest."

"Cold," she concedes. "It was cold."

"You hated it."

"I didn't hate it."

"You hated it."

"It wasn't awful, Owen, it was just weird."

"But you could tell it wasn't normal?"

"I think people will be able to tell, yeah." She pats his shoulder, feeling awful and wondering how insincere her smile seems to him. "It would've been great otherwise, you know. Fantastic kisser, you can tell. It's just... there are some factors. Maybe you could find yourself a nice girl with a vampire fetish."

"Bloody hell," he whispers to no one in particular, and Martha braces for the wrathful fallout, but none comes. He just looks defeated.

"I'm sure..." she tries feebly, but he turns to her with a sharp glare, a stray light reflecting in his eyes and making them glitter with a liveliness he himself does not possess.

"You're sure what, exactly? I've nothing else, Martha. I had women and Torchwood, pathetic as that sounds, and now I haven't got either. No one wants to speak to the poor dead boy. I can't get a shag anymore. And I can't even get bloody snogged. What else is there?" Then he lets out something of a raw scream and hits his arm against the rail.

Martha cringes but doesn't answer. Even when she witnessed the Doctor at the height of his anger, a fury borne of centuries of death and injustice, something about it was relatively contained. It does not compare to this desperate, boundless rage. Nothing compares to it. She's scared and sad all at once, she wants both to hold him and to shy away. Instead she just stands and waits, staring at her shoes. All of this is because of her, and she can do nothing.

She runs through a list of potential things to say, all of them inane to the last: "Do you want to talk about it?" "Is there anything I can do?" "Are you okay?"

Instead, his pocket vibrates and he pulls out a phone. "I hate this stupid thing," he says to no one in particular. "'Lo?"

Martha hears Jack's voice bleating the one question about the whole scenario that she feels perfectly qualified to answer. "Owen, where in the hell are you?"

Owen affects a cheerful tone, even though his expression is bordering on murderous. "I'm ready and willing to do your billing, is where I am, Jack."

Jack says something that Martha can't hear. "Fine, I'm on it," Owen mutters. "Be there soon." He hangs up and looks to Martha. "Don't suppose you'd be interested in going along, for old time's sake?"

"I should be getting back to the girls," she says apologetically. "Sorry."

"I vaguely remember what it's like to have a night off," he says. "Right then. Be seeing you, Martha."

Martha swoops in to kiss his cheek before she has time to consider what the consequences might be like. "Take care, Owen."

"Always do," he answers with a feral sort of grin before heading off into the darkness.

She doesn't realize it yet, but it's the last time she'll ever see him.

* * *

She gets the call from Gwen, not Jack. There's something about it that's incredibly telling, but she's too tired to really sit down and attempt to figure out what.

"Martha, what is it?" asks Tom, once she's shut the phone.

"Just a work thing," she murmurs, rubbing at her forehead. She can't muster even the tired, apologetic smile she usually uses when she can't talk about the intricacies of her job.

Martha wishes she could say she was a stranger to people dying, but she's not. It's an unfortunate side-effect. She also wishes she could say it didn't affect her every time, but it does. Every time. This is one of the hardest, because Owen Harper, despite being dead, had a lot of living left to do.

She goes to bed with the memory of cold lips on her own, a chill that somehow makes its way bone-deep, despite it being a touch from long ago. She hopes that maybe for once, he'll get what he wants.


End file.
